The Star of Buckland
by Halethwyn
Summary: The unexplored story of Estella Bolger during and following the War of the Ring, told in short scenes. Just how and why did Master Meriadoc end up marrying the young lass? (You will need to have read LotR, rated T for safety as death is mentioned)
1. Of Bagginses and Bolgers

**Of Bagginses and Bolgers**

(corresponds to Chapter 2 of Book 1)

* * *

Estella Bolger had more Took in her than was good for a respectable hobbit-lass. At any rate, that was the general consensus in Budgeford. Her mother, Rosamunda, had been, by all reports, a very Tookish Took before she settled down to become the stout, jolly, and ever-so-slightly less than proper Mrs. Odovacar Bolger; why, even her hair had been a wild shade of reddish-brown before fading to a matronly grey. Estella, the unexpected and rather late second child, had inherited both the copper curls and the impishness of her mother. When she was no more than a child, she had called _Bilbo Baggins_ an adopted uncle, if you please, and spent hours over at Bag End in Hobbiton listening to his ridiculous stories. Even her older brother Fredegar, who ought to have had more sense, seemed to prefer time with the mad branch of the Baggins family to ordinary tween mischief. He was often off gallivanting with Frodo, Bilbo's younger cousin and heir, and left his sister to be bewitched by whatever tales old Mr. Bilbo told of far-off lands. Folk wondered that Odovacar did not rein in his children, but gossip held - supported by a few knowing looks from Rosamunda - that his wife had overruled him.

"Well, they'll grow out of it in time," common wisdom proclaimed via the voice of Azalea Grubb. She was Odovacar's cousin, as proper a hobbit-matron as the Shire had ever produced, and thus an Authority on the Subject. "It's to be expected of children like Essie - she don't know how mad it all is yet. She'll grow some hobbit-sense."

The growth of hobbit-sense, evidently, was a slow process. Estella was sixteen when the Party - and the legendary Disappearance - took place, and she had wept bitterly when it was discovered that Bilbo was nowhere to be found until her blue eyes looked like wet cornflowers rimmed by red poppies. She even had the gall to sass one of the Proudfoots, who had remarked that it was just as well if Mad Baggins had finally popped off for good. "Uncle Bilbo," - for so she still called him, by his especial permission, - "is a Hero and a Writer, and he's worth ten Proudfoots any day of the week!" She had shrilled this out with all of a teen's dramatic intonation in the middle of a crowd and more than one hobbit had heard and shaken their head. "Hush, Essie, and don't talk back to your elders," her aunt Tulip Bolger had scolded. Estella had crossed her arms and stared stonily at the departing Proudfoot. "Well, he is."

The next day, when everyone had returned to find out what had really happened, the crowds were both disappointed and thrilled by the fact that even Frodo seemed to admit that Bilbo had gone for good. There went much of the best gossip in the Shire, but also any reason for the younger hobbits to grow mad and go off on Adventures! Some of the curious throng were even asked to step into Bag End, as Bilbo had left presents for them. Most were useful comforts given with Bilbo's native generousity to the folks who needed them, but some of the gifts had a joke or a point to them. Estella had been wide-eyed with wonder and tears when Frodo called her inside and picked up a wide thin book bound in brown leather from a table in one of the parlors. Bilbo had collected various and sundry articles with a passion - most hobbits did - but his taste had always run towards books and trinkets of Dwarf or even Elf-make rather than hobbit mathoms. She had always been fascinated by his library and consequently turned the cover of her present almost reverently.

 _For ESTELLA BOLGER,_ read the note scrawled on the flyleaf _, with love from Uncle Bilbo, with the hope that it will help._

It was a book of maps. She had snorted in mild annoyance at the pointed remark. She had hid from her brother Freddie in the bogs down by the Water near Frogmorton once three years before, and had gotten hopelessly lost by nightfall. It had taken a search party to bring her back safely, and she had yet to live down the teasing. The book itself was beautifully done; all the roads in red ink, and the names in blue. The first dozen or so were maps of the Shire, but most of the volume consisted of maps of lands far beyond the Boundaries. Strange names - the Lone-Lands, Dale, Gondor, and the Riddermark - stared up at her like elvish magic from the pages. The Shire-maps were done in Bilbo's own hand. She hugged it to her chest and looked up at Frodo. "Where did he go?" she pled in a small voice.

Bilbo's heir frowned sadly. "I wish I knew, Essie."


	2. Tween Mischief

**Tween Mischief**

(corresponds to Chapter 2 of Book 1)

* * *

With old Baggins gone, she had no more reason to visit Bag End. Though her brother, who had justly earned the nickname "Fatty" during his tween years, remained an intimate of Frodo, she had never been very close with her brother's friends. Estella took more and more to wandering the trails marked out on her map. By her mid-tweens, she knew the woods and vales of the Eastfarthing as well as she knew the layout of her own farmhouse, and her knowledge of the other three Farthings was not far behind. She had been outspoken as a child but now she was quieter, though often impulsive. She read books as often as she could get her hands on them - which was not very often - and while she never failed to finish her chores on the Bolger farm, she was hardly ever at home.

"She's a tween yet; give her time," Rosamunda told her sister-in-law when the latter complained about the lack of forthcoming hobbit-sense.

Tulip snorted. "Bolgers are respectable folk, Rose. I know she's a tween, but she ought to be climbing trees in the orchard, not wandering the length of the Shire! T'wouldn't be decent in a lad, let alone a lass of our family!"

Rosamunda only smiled politely.

* * *

At that very moment, Estella was away to the east, crossing the Brandywine Bridge. It was lovely, massive old stone work, "from the days of the king", as the saying went, back before the Founding of the Shire. It was not built for hobbits, but for the Big Folk, and it was wide enough and solid enough that she need not fear taking a tumble into the river. Few hobbits outside of Buckland could swim, and not even all Brandybucks could do more than keep afloat. Of late, there were Bounders stationed on the Shire-side of the bridge, and the Bucklanders guarded the North Gate in the hedge that surrounded their little colony. There had been strange folk abroad and one couldn't be too careful. On the far side of the Brandywine, she stood on ground that belonged to neither the Shire nor Buckland. It was the edge of the Wide World. Estella felt a thrill run down her spine as she looked north to the Brandy Hills. True, it looked green and tame enough, but it was Outside. She was on an adventure, like Bilbo, like her Took ancestors and she thrilled to the wild piping of the winds in the trees.

"Look sharp!" a voice cried suddenly. "'E's got loose again, 'e 'as!"

A sharp squeal and the heavy trotting of pig feet came from behind the Hedge on her right. A moment later, the two guards at the North Gate were bowled over by a large black and pink boar who was bellowing his own cleverness in having escaped. Hardly stopping to think, Estella stooped for a stone - there were many cast by the water along the riverbank - and threw it at the animal. Her pebble struck him right between the eyes, and he stopped for a moment and stared about, astonished at the blow.

"Here, pig! Here, pig!" she called sweetly, pulling a carrot out of her pocket, for being a hobbit, she never went walking without a good supply of eatables. She waved the carrot enticingly, and the pig tilted its head to consider the situation.

"Oh, don' let 'im get away!" yelled a fat and rather grubby farmer who had just come, puffing and blowing, through the gate. "'E's my entry fer the Midsummer Faire!"

The noise behind him reminded the boar that he was supposed to be escaping and he bounded towards the hills.

While the farmer wailed in distress, Estella ran after the pig, heedless of the carrot which had fallen from her hand. Now it was a proper Adventure, she thought, with a victory and a triumphant return ahead of her.

"Hey there! Come back!" yelled one of the Gate guards as she sprinted out into the Wild.

She paid them no mind, fully focused on keeping the boar - who was surprisingly quick for his hefty size - in her sights. He wound back and forth, getting steadily higher up the first ridge of the Brandy Hills, until a minute later he had crested it and was out of sight. Not far behind him, she too reached the top of the ridge and plunged down the far side. The grass rolled in great green uncut swathes around her, and the few oak trees were taller and somehow less tame than the groves within the Boundaries. She ran, laughing aloud for the forbidden joy of it all.

Ahead of her, the boar suddenly tripped over something in the grass and tumbled, squealing madly, to the small valley at the bottom of the hill. Estella came to the place a moment later and was stunned to hear a distinctly hobbit voice moan a low, drawn-out, "Ow."

Prone on the ground lay a hobbit-lad only a few years older than herself. He was obviously the thing over which the boar had tripped, and he didn't like it in the least. He had curly brown hair on his head and his feet, fair skin well-tanned by the sun, and he was currently curled up like a hedgehog, clutching his trampled stomach. She knew him almost at once.

"Merry Brandybuck!" she exclaimed in surprise. He was one of Fatty's friends, and the grandson of the Master of the Hall in Buckland. She had known him a little when they were both young children playing in Bag End and listening to Bilbo, but they had not spoken beyond a "how d' ye do" in many years.

"What was that?" he demanded, beginning to get his breath back and uncurl. He shaded his brown eyes from the late spring sunshine and looked up at her. "Estella Bolger?"

"A pig has got loose and I was trying to catch it," she explained, suddenly remembering to look about for the animal. It was still at the bottom of the hill, to her relief, evidently very shaken by the fall, but she perceived no obvious injuries as it grunted and slowly rolled to its feet.

He followed her gaze and laughed suddenly. "Well, did you have to use me as a boar trap?"

She stared down at him for a moment before bursting out with a sunny giggle of her own. "You must admit, it worked beautifully."

"For you, perhaps, but what about the pair of us? The pig and I both look less than thrilled," he returned, gamely getting to his feet. Evidently, the bruising was not too bad. Or, she thought as he winced when he took a step, he was simply hiding the pain. "But it would be a shame to waste your fine work, so let's get him while he's still dazed."

Working together and still chuckling, they coaxed and herded the boar back over the hill and down through the North Gate. The farmer, whose name was Parter Limdale, was torn between thanking the tweens and scolding them for going off into the Wild. The two guards were slightly more respectful towards scion of the Brandybucks, but gave them both a pretty sound rating, too. Merry slyly rolled his eyes at Estella at the end of the long-winded lecture as he promised never to do anything like it again. The elders finally ceased grumbling when he offered, with strict politeness, to walk Estella home. She almost declined, not being finished with her excursion, when some twinkle in his eye made her change her mind. As they began the short walk to the Brandywine Bridge, the Gate guards nodded in satisfaction and helped Farmer Limdale herd his prized pig back into safety.

Merry threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure they were out of sight, then grabbed her hand and pulled her into the shadow of a small stand of oaks that stood at the base of the hill. "Come on!" he urged in a whisper.

Estella stifled a giggle as she realized he was no more done with adventures than she was and followed him gladly. "Where are we going?" she asked in a hushed tone as they climbed the hill, using the trees for cover.

"Back to get my picnic blanket and basket," he replied, letting go of her hand now that they were on course. "I can hardly leave them out here."

"Is that what you were doing out here!" she exclaimed, a little louder now that they were out of easy earshot of the gate.

Merry threw her a grin. "Come to Brandy Hall sometime and see if the endless relatives don't drive you mad every so often."

Estella thought of Budgeford, with all her good natured Bolger relations and their wagging tongues and busybody noses, and nodded emphatically. She fell silent as they climbed, thinking to herself. As they hurriedly crested the hill, she suddenly snorted out a short laugh.

"What?" he asked, glancing back at her.

"I was thinking," she explained, a little hesitant, "that it was lucky the pig ran up the hill, not towards the river."

He raised one eyebrow encouragingly.

She was not used to sharing the private thoughts and jokes that ran through her head, but something in his look convinced her to make an exception. "Well, if he had gone in the water, we couldn't have gotten him out and so we'd have to say he was drowned in the _Brandyswine_."

Estella expected an eyeroll or a groan, but he chuckled. "That would have been a _boaring_ story."

Delighted and surprised, she snickered as they came to the place where his picnic gear lay scattered about. "You needn't _bristle_ at it, Master Merry!"

"Just Merry, Stella," he corrected, grinning and gathering up the spilt food in the basket. "I'm not a _pig_ about titles."

She glanced up at him as she picked up the crumpled blanket. Everyone had always called her "Essie" since she was a toddler and Fatty had invented it to torment her. She had always hated it, but her parents thought it was sweet and it had stuck. "Stella" sounded beautifully grown-up and elegant. His hand met hers briefly as they both tried to pick up the same platter, and she felt her stomach turn over as if she'd eaten too many sticky rolls at afternoon tea.

He did eventually walked her home to Budgeford, stayed for supper, and then went out night-berrying with Fatty, but she never forgot those few golden minutes when Merry Brandybuck made jokes with her about a runaway boar. A few nights of tossing and turning sleeplessly convinced her that she had lost her heart to the bold hobbit-lad, and it was some weeks before she managed to talk herself into reclaiming it.


	3. In the Wake of the Riders

**In the Wake of the Riders**

(corresponds to Chapter 11 of Book 1)

* * *

"No, no! It isn't me! I haven't got it!" Fatty screamed out, quivering like a bowl of boiled marrow as he lay in the guest bed of Widow Banks. A crowd of worried and confused hobbits from the nearby village of Newbury were gathered in the small room and all were giving advice as she tried to penetrate the haze of her brother's terror.

"Give him a nip of ale; it'll do him good."

"Sprinkle him with cold water."

"Haven't you got any smelling salts?"

"Poor lad's got himself in a state, t'be sure!"

"He ought to be sat down in front of the fire."

"Nonsense! It's fresh air he wants!"

Estella ignored them all. "Fatty? Fredegar? Fatty, talk to me. Haven't got what?"

He stared through her with glazed eyes and waved his arms helplessly. "It's not me you want! It's gone!"

Gently, but firmly, she put both hands on his shoulders and shook him. "Fatty Bolger, listen to me! What is it you haven't got?"

His gaze seemed to focus on her, but his terror did not diminish. "Oh, Essie, Essie, don't let the Black Riders take me! Don't let them touch me. They're cold, so cold, and they hurt my head."

"Black Riders?" she muttered. This whole business made no sense. Frodo Baggins had moved to Crickhollow only a few days before, and Merry Brandybuck, Pippin Took, and Fatty, along with Frodo's gardener Samwise Gamgee, had gone with him to help turn it into a proper hobbit house. Now Crickhollow was empty and showed signs of having been broken into - an attack on hobbits! in Buckland! - without any reasonable explanation. Fatty had turned up at Widow Banks' house in the middle of the night, crying much as he had been ever since, and the horn-call of Buckland had gone up as it had not done since the Fell Winter a century before, and such a search party had scoured the countryside as would make gossip for housewives for years to come. A messenger had even been dispatched to fetch Fatty's family, but Estella was the only one accustomed to travel on a moment's notice. She had galloped on one of her father's sturdy ponies as fast as she could from Budgeford and arrived just as the sky was turning grey with the promise of dawn. She had not done much good since. "Fatty, where's Frodo Baggins?" she tried again.

"He's gone. Tell them I haven't got it, Essie. Tell them it's gone!" he shrieked, hiding his head under the coverlet.

She frowned. There was something more to this than just a late night fright, or she was a Dwarf. "Widow Banks, don't you think he needs quiet?"

"Aye, that's wot I've been saying fer nigh on two hours," the hospitable and worthy host nodded sagely. Never one for standing on ceremony, she promptly shooed all the others out of the room and shut the door behind them. Estella was certain the news of a stolid Bolger having a nervous breakdown would be all over the Four Farthings before the week was out.

While the Widow mended the fire and hid her curiosity, Estella poured her brother a tumbler of water with a dash of ale in it, and knelt by his bed. "Now, Fatty, tell me what happened. Where has Frodo gone?"

"Into the Old Forest!" he wailed mournfully, before sitting up and taking a long drink from the mug.

Estella's blue eyes went wide and for a moment, she swore her heart had skipped a beat. "And the others?"

He shook his head and took another long draft. "All gone, all… dead. The Forest has got them, if the Black Riders haven't."

Her stomach clenched painfully, but she forced a smile to her lips. "Nonsense, Fatty! If Merry led them in, they're alright. You know Nurse Delver's stories about the Forest weren't even half true. Frodo, at any rate, is sensible and wouldn't do anything foolish, so if he's gone, it must be alright."

"But the white wolves, Essie! Folk have seen them." He flung a hand over his eyes dramatically. "And even if they get out, those Riders are looking for it."

She decided the best thing to do would be to treat it all like a bad dream or the exaggerated tale of a hobbit-child. "There you go again, talking nonsense! What Riders?"

"The Riders in black," he repeated, much to her dissatisfaction. "They came looking for-" He cut himself off and stared at her reproachfully, as if she had just invaded his room when he had specially asked her to keep out. "No, I swore I wouldn't tell."

She rolled her eyes at the air of the martyr in his speech, having heard it many times since the nursery. "Fatty, what have you done now? Why did the lads go into the Old Forest, and what do the Black Riders want?"

But to her surprise, he clammed up completely and refused point blank to tell her anything further. She had always been able to wheedle and cajole secrets from him before, but for once in his life, he was either too serious or too frightened to tell her. Her Tookish side stubbornly decided to get to the bottom of the mystery, but to her chagrin, she could discover nothing more for several months.


	4. Desperate Times

**Desperate Times**

(corresponds to Chapter 12 of Book 1)

* * *

"What do you mean, he's in the Lockholes?" Estella demanded of her parents.

"It was the Chief's Big Men," her father said sorrowfully, taking a long drink of weak ale. She was forcibly reminded of her brother in that motion and tone. "They said poor Fatty had been hiding weapons - oh, my poor aching head! my poor boy - and he'd been disrupting their gatherers and sharers. Him an' his friends. They found 'em up in Scary and dragged 'em off. Cousin Milo told us."

Estella flushed red in anger. "Those thieving, rat-faced _goblins_!" she spat. "I wish I was three feet taller; I'd show 'em!" It was an empty threat, and that only made her frustration build. "How will we get him out?"

"Get him out?" her father repeated, puzzled. "No one gets out of the Lockholes."

She stared at her parents in scandalized disbelief. It was on the tip of her tongue to scream that they could not abandon Fatty to Lotho Sackville-Baggins when she was struck by just how old and worn they both looked. Odovacar had long since gone grey and was now rather bald. His skin was sun-browned and wrinkled after many years out-of-doors, but of late he had lost the pleasant plumpness of a successful farmer - the result of the gatherers and tighter belts. His empty hands opened and shut pathetically as he snorted and sniffed away tears, and her mother slipped both of her hands into his, seeking and giving comfort. Rosamunda had also lost her matronly figure - a very unhobbitlike leanness defined her now, and what reddish glint had been left in her curls was gone. They looked to Estella's eyes a weary and frightened couple, utterly unequipped to deal with anything like the Chief and his Big Men.

She swallowed back her bitter words and thought hard. Was she any better equipped than they? Was she not a simple hobbit-lass just come of age and with no more notion of how to break into the Lockholes than of how to fly? Doubt and fear seemed to cast visible shadows in the room, and it was hard to breathe. Casting one last glance at her mum and da, who were staring at her with damp eyes, she tore out of the room and into the cold winter air.

It was almost the month of Rethe, and winter was supposed to be drawing to an end, but the chill hung stubbornly over the Shire as it had not done in many a year. Her breath hung white in the air and her feet sloshed through half-frozen mud to reach the edge of the farm. She had no plan and no hope of one. The deadened gaze of her parents and her brother's dark cell were all she could think of, and the tightness in her chest threatened to burst out in a wave of tears. To keep from crying, she screamed, "A pox on Lotho Pimple!"

The tears came anyway, hot and fast, and she climbed into one of the bare apple trees to hide. But crying had never been a habit of Estella's, and she stopped after only a few minutes. Weeping was not half as useful as thinking. "If it wasn't for the Chief's Big Men, we could get him out, alright," she murmured to herself. "And since we can't get rid of his… We'll just have to get our own." It was easily said, but not very easily done. The only town of the Big Folk Estella knew was Bree, and that lay nearly twenty-three leagues to the east. She had never been even a quarter of that distance away from the Shire.

"But I could do it," she whispered, sitting up straight. "I've got maps and I'm good at walking. The gatherers would notice if someone rode off on a pony, but if a hobbit-lass just snuck into the woods and over the Brandywine Bridge…"

It was a risk. The Sherrifs were increasing in numbers and they had begun discouraging folks from leaving their own towns. It was easier to keep order and peace if everyone stayed home, they said. Stuff and nonsense, of course, like all their talking about sharing after the gathering was done. But supposing she could make it past the Boundary, even all the way to Bree, what then? Why would the Big Folk rush to help the Shire?

 _But what other choice is there?_ she argued with herself silently. _Sit at home and let Fatty waste away in Lockholes?_ That was no choice at all; she would face a dragon before she abandoned her plump, good-natured, foolish, funny brother. She frowned and looked as fierce as a hobbit-lass with reddish curls and a dimple in her left cheek can look. "Never," she swore quietly to herself as she swung out of the tree. The icy mud was uncomfortable between her toes as she trotted back to her hobbit-hole but she paid it no mind.

 _I need maps, food - goodness, where am I to get enough? - and a good stick. I can take mum's old cloak, and da won't mind me taking that old satchel from his workbench. What about a blanket? Certainly a tinderbox, though I can hardly light a fire inside the Boundaries anymore. And perhaps my sling?_ Lost in her plans, she shut the door behind her and closed out the cold night air. High above, in the blue-black sky, the stars shone dimly, as if even they had begun to lose hope.


	5. Howls in the Mist

**Howls in the Mist**

(corresponds to Chapter 3 of Book 2)

* * *

Estella shivered and stubbornly told herself it was just the chill of the winter mist. She had managed to cross the Brandywine in an actual _boat_ without drowning; she was certainly not afraid of a little fog. The sun burned overhead, a dull grey circle unable to pierce the mist that had drifted up from the south. From the Barrow-Downs, her memory whispered ominously. She had always dismissed Fatty's fears of monsters and ghouls before as fairy tales. Now, for the first time, she wondered if perhaps the tales might be true. The fog made phantom faces as she walked, and they winked or stared or changed shape in a way that would not, she told herself firmly, be at all disconcerting if she had a companion.

The road that led east out of the Shire toward Bree-town was in some disrepair and overgrown with yellow stalks of dead grass, and although clearly marked with flagstones, it was somewhat difficult to find beneath the coating of icy mud that blanketed the countryside. It might be the very road which Merry and Frodo and the others had trod nearly five months before, the road they would use to return soon. Never mind Lobelia Sackville-Baggins proclaiming loudly and repeatedly that her young cousin had himself told her that he was leaving the Shire forever to follow in "Mad Baggins'" footsteps! The four of them would be back soon enough, safe and sound and with some lovely wild adventures to tell. And by then Fatty would be out of the Lockholes - by means as yet rather hazy, but he would be out - and Lotho and Lobelia would be given a proper setdown by Frodo and go slinking back to Hardbottle and all would be peace and happiness, just as it always had been.

Estella sighed, wincing when the sound echoed hollowly back to her ears from the fog. Try as she might to convince herself that all the Shire needed was to kick the Sackville-Bagginses back to their rightful petty domain, perhaps things had gone too far for that. "What's queer about it all," she said aloud to fill the emptiness, "is how Lotho's got so much money and land, so folks just have to do what he says or he'll kick them off. Where'd he get it? Not from old Otho, that's for certain."

The mist thickened and the air grew chill, as if the silence disliked being interrupted by the pleasant voice of the hobbit-lass and she bit her lip to keep from screaming when a tall shadowy figure appeared to her right, just off the road. Except, looking down now, she could see she had lost the road somewhere. The flagstones were gone; she was on a moor or a plain of some kind, and the dead grasses whispered underfoot as if to protest her trespassing. Estella looked up at the sun. It was near the midday mark, as high in the southern sky as it could reach in the bitter chilly season between winter and spring. And she was facing toward it.

"The Barrow-Downs," she whispered, swallowing back a yelp. She had let the sun guide her feet instead of the road and it had betrayed her, leading her south to the haunted moors. She would bet any amount of afternoon teas that the shadowy figure was a pillar of stone set on a barrow.

No hobbit, not even Bilbo the Adventurer, could have faced such a prospect without cold sweat on their brow. Estella certainly could not and it seemed to her that her feet were frozen to the cold wet earth, forcing her to await the fearsome barghests that would surely appear out of the mist and tear her limb from limb. Or worse yet, one of the wights, with their cold dead eyes and colder-yet dead hands. Not that she had ever clearly worked out from Nurse Delver's stories exactly what a wight was; the old hobbit had been more concerned with scaring the children into their warm beds than describing minute details of the fearsome creatures that haunted the edge of Shire-talk.

With that simple reminder of home and her safe, happy childhood, the spell seemed to break and she could move and breathe again. True, she still felt the iron hand of fear on her breast, but it was no longer paralyzing. "The first thing to do," she said aloud in what was nearly the no-nonsense tone often applied to steady Fatty after he had drunk one too many tumblers, "is to find the Road again. I can't have gotten that far off of it."

As if in answer, a distant, but not distant enough, howl broke the silence of the downs. The hungry, mournful cry chilled Estella's blood, but her Took ancestors stood her in good stead now - she did not lose her head or shriek or run senselessly in circles, though she may perhaps have wanted to do any and all of those useless things. Instead, she drew her little wool sling from the pocket of her rough loose dress and carefully set a rather large rounded stone plucked from the banks of the Water into the pouch. She had no other weapon and would not have known how to use one if she had. Carrying the loaded sling in her right hand, she turned her back to the sun, and started walking north. If her little legs trembled and she took care that her feet should be soundless on the muddy grass as only a hobbit could be, it was only natural. It seemed certain that she could only have lost the road by a few hundred paces at most and that she would soon be back on the right path to Bree.

She counted her steps in her head as she went, the mist parting reluctantly before her and closing heavily just behind her heels. Two dozen, four dozen, a hundred, and still there was no sign of the Road. She passed several more pillar-like shadows and made a point of giving them a wide berth. It must have been this winding between mounds that got her positively muddled, for by the time she reached a hundred and fifty paces, she had only reached a small rise of ground that gave way quite suddenly to blank grey cliffs of stone. Mist filled the hollow below her, and by some sense other than sight, she knew that the dell was better avoided. The sun had faded behind the thickening fog and all was cold and damp as she turned left along the edge of the crags, following her best guess at the direction in which the road lay. From her right and below another wailing howl emerged, much nearer than the other. "But it's quite safe," she murmured to herself, more to hear her own real, warm hobbit voice than for anything else, "because it looks like a long drop and I don't think even barrow hounds can climb."

It is a peculiarity of the Little Folk that as flabby and uninteresting and timid as most of them are, when put in a tight spot, many of them find buried in their hearts a simple courage which can brave dangers that would make doughty Men take to their heels. Estella was neither flabby nor timid, and her courage was not far beneath the surface. Even so, she felt her blood pounding behind her ears and her little feet seemed to make great thudding noises on the rocky turf, though a rabbit might have passed by without hearing a thing if there had been any rabbits brave - or stupid - enough to live on the Barrow Downs.

She kept careful count of her paces until about four hundred, when a growl that seemed very near at hand startled her into losing track, and still the cliff went on unbroken on her right hand side. It must have been half an Age before she came to the ruins of a barrow perched on the very edge of the bluff. It had once been a great round hill, almost as large as The Hill in Hobbiton, but now the roof was collapsed and crumbled as if the evil ground had been trod under the hoof of some vast cow the size of a dragon, leaving only a round hole choked with rubble. Estella bit her lip thoughtfully. The mist was lighter around the broken tomb and there was a scent in the air of something like spring in the deep woods. Cautiously, but lured by the promise of a break from inclement cold and fear, she crept forward to the lip of the barrow. Just on the edge, as she looked down into the bowl filled with broken stones and a jumble of what might be old armor or bones, her bare foot struck something cool and metal.

Her right hand whipped up, sling at the ready, but there was no need; she had only stumbled over a pile of glinting jewels. She caught her breath in awe as she stared at the loose collection of ancient wealth at her toes, half-buried in dead grass and heather. Some of the stones were loose and glimmered like single stars, but most were set in chains of gold or silver, or on intricately shaped brooches, or on circlets meant to grace the princes of Men. If she had been asked beforehand, she might have thought that treasures from a barrow would have been unlovely things better left in the dark, but this trove gleamed with a wholesome luster despite the dim light of the afternoon. They drew her like the sun draws young shoots from the quiet soil. "Oh," she breathed. "How lovely they are."


	6. Friends in Odd Places

**Friends in Odd Places**

(corresponds to Chapter 3 of Book 2)

* * *

Left alone, it is doubtful that Estella would have taken anything from the pile, however induced by inclination and assurance of the owner's being long dead. Bilbo's stories of Dwarves and treasures had impressed on her a long time ago that precious things always have some claimant for their rightful possession and she had a very keen sense of honour and fair play. However, she was not allowed to remain alone. A hollow cry from a barghest sounded again, this time from her left along the moors, and it was followed immediately by the sensible, unimpressed neigh of a horse. The hound cried out in pain a moment later and then a steady beat of hooves on the hard earth came closer and closer to the broken barrow.

Estella shoved the first two fingers of her left hand in her mouth and whistled shrilly. It was not, strictly speaking, a sensible thing to do since she had no notion of who the horse's rider was or what they were doing on the Barrow Downs, but she was so grateful for the sound of anything so wholesome and normal as an equine that she did not stop to think. The pace of the thudding hooves altered slightly at her call and the creature snorted, as if urging her to be patient. A few moments later, he emerged from the fog. It was not a horse at all, but a very large, rather fat and solemn-looking pony. He was unshod and free of saddle or bridle, but his cream-coloured coat was brushed and his grey mane bore a braid or two about the forelock. The pony turned its heavy head to the side to gaze at the hobbit-lass out of one dark, wise, twinkling eye before he trotted up to her and nosed her forehead gently.

Out of habit and the joy of seeing some other living warm creature, Estella dug through her pockets for a roll and offered it to the old pony atop her outstretched palm. Her gift was graciously accepted and when he had finished chewing, the beast lowered his head still further to lip at one of the shining jewels in the grass. "Oh, don't eat it!" she cried impetuously, rushing to rescue the silly old thing from choking by dropping to her knees and trying very anxiously to pull the brooch from its teeth. The pony only dropped the pin in her lap, nickering softly as if amused. A faint breeze stirred the windless Downs and an echo of some strange merry voice came to her ears.

 _Here lie free to all finders:_

 _Birds, beasts, Elves or Men,_

 _And all kindly creatures._

 _Thus be wight-spell broken._

"You mean…" she asked almost timidly of the beast, and there appeared in that moment nothing strange about speaking to it, "You mean I may take one?" The white pony nodded gravely.

Somehow, there seemed something solemn in the choosing. Though when beyond the mist and the grim and ancient wilds of the Barrow Downs, Estella likely would have laughed at herself, in the moment, she felt rather like a lady called to choose a token from the hoard of a generous king. She wrinkled her pert nose and stuck her tongue out in thought, gently fingering the forgotten treasures of a lost Age. At last, she drew up a silver chain nearly the length of her arm on which hung a single pale gem carved in the shape of a many-rayed star. The silver was tarnished and the jewel was coated with dried mud, but they were still finer than any trinket she had ever possessed and she tucked the necklace almost reverently into an inner pocket of her faded green dress.

The pony nickered his approval and knelt in the grass with a huff, turning his eye on her patiently. "What do you want?" she asked, patting his forelock and wishing she had something better to give him than stale bread nicked from the storeroom of the Budgeford Shiriff-house three days ago. He blew at her red curls, which were made excessively frizzy by the fog, then briefly turned his neck to nip at his own withers, and waited.

"You want me to ride?" she asked after a moment. He nodded, horse-fashion, and blinked his deep eyes.

Estella had never been much in the habit of riding, although her father had been a prosperous farmer and had kept five ponies to pull the ploughs and the carts before the gradual rise to fortune of Lotho. She had prefered to explore the Four Farthings on her own quiet little legs and leave the noisy, friendly, messy beasts in the fields. Thus it was without much grace and more than a little scrambling to grab hold of his grey mane, which smelled sweetly of hay and leaves and green things, that she mounted the old pony's back and clung to him. He stood slowly so as not to startle her and she looked round them. The mist beyond the broken barrow was just as cold and thick as it had been, but it had somehow lost its element of nameless terror. She was even able to whistle softly to the pony in thanks as he began to trot, bouncing her a bit - he was too tall and too broad for a hobbit, but she clung to his mane with tenacity - and his soft whinny in reply made her really feel almost safe.

The pony chose his own path through the Downs, winding around several large mounds and trotting fearlessly over a few of the smaller barrows. Some air of an old power was on him, curious wise old beast that he was, and she neither heard nor saw any more of the hounds that had frightened her so. It did not even seem to her a long time before the mist began to lessen and the gray stones of the Road East appeared in a misshapen line before them. Here the pony stopped, and she slithered off his back, unbalanced by the heavy pack across her shoulders, and fell to the ground.

She picked herself up easily and dusted off her dress from sheer habit. "Thank you," she smiled, drawing out her last bread roll and holding it on her flat palm. The white pony gravely lipped the treat and took a moment to munch it down with evident satisfaction. "I'll be certain to keep to the Road this time, good sir," she jested.

He rolled his dark eyes and snorted, stamping to show his disapprobation.

"I know it's silly, but what else can I do?" she asked, stroking his velvet nose. "Someone's got to stand up to Lotho, you know. He's got these Big Men from the South and they just take everything to 'share it fairly', which means we never see it again, and we haven't got enough foodstuffs anyway, because Lotho sold it somewhere, and…" Her voice cracked a little. "And he's got my brother in the Lockholes."

The pony nickered softly, nosing her hair for a moment. Then he turned and walked a few paces down the Road to the left.

"That's the wrong way, silly," she lovingly scolded, following him just to pet his side. "The Barrow Downs are south of the Road, so east is right. I made sure of it before I left."

He took no notice of her protestations, merely moving a few more paces down the broken road towards the Shire before he turned and looked back at her.

"I can't just go back," she explained, trotting after him so she could stroke his velvet nose in farewell. "I have to find help. I have to stop Lotho."

He snorted a gentle protest and lipped at the curls on her forehead before sighing. He turned toward the east and whickered as he knelt in the grass between the old paving stones. She smiled brightly as she clambered up onto his back again. "Thank you," she whispered in his whiskery white ear.

The pony neighed and began trotting toward Bree.


	7. A Traveller Comes to Supper

**A Traveller Comes to Supper**

(corresponds to Chapter 9 of Book 6)

* * *

Two years ago, a reasonably well-off family like that of Odovacar Bolger might have turned up their noses at a prospective winter of eating little more than salted pork, plain bread, and jarred apples 'n onions. Now it seemed that they could never get tired of these simple foods, partially for the sheer joy of not feeling real hunger anymore, but mostly because Fredegar was home again.

"Though it'll be a good while before he's got proper meat on his bones again," Rosamunda commented, bustling about to fry rashers of pork while Estella set the table.

It was a cold night, but not bitterly so for the month of Blotmath*, so they had a good fire in the kitchen and another across the hall in the sitting room where the men were smoking their pipes so that the whole of the Bolger house was bright and warm and cheerful. Estella hummed a half-remembered song Uncle Bilbo had taught her long ago as she laid the plates and forks and things on the small wooden table in the kitchen which they used for dining when there was no company. The Shire was not quite back to normal - food was not abundant, and folks had to share and eat only two or three times a day - but it was certainly on its way, though it had only been two weeks since the Battle of Bywater. Her mum and da had found their smiles again and even Fatty cracked jokes and pulled her hair as he used to.

Estella herself had almost recovered from those horrible two years when Lotho was Boss and then Sharkey had made it a hundredfold worse. It was not always in her mind now. She remembered Sharkey, or Saruman, or whatever his right name was, and his mocking pale ghost sighing in the wind while a knife protruded from the back of his ghastly corpse. She could recall that poor wretch Wormtongue wailing as he was brought down by hobbit-arrows. But the memories had done little to taint the present time of peace, and what the Shire hoped would be a plentiful harvest next year. The only constant reminder of the dark times was the little silver chain and blue jewel from the Barrows, which she rarely took off. She did not want to forget completely.

While she mused thus - and consequently put all the forks on the wrong side - a knock sounded at the front door of their one-story farmhouse. "Good gracious, what can Azalea want now?" Rosamunda exclaimed impatiently. "Essie, my love, do go and see what she wants to say this time, but on no account ask her to stay to supper!"

Estella snickered a little as she ran off to answer the door. But it was not Cousin Azalea. A tall hobbit, taller than any she had ever seen, stood on the threshold. He wore fine mail and his jerkin, tunic, and breeches were made of velvet and fine linen in rich foreign colours. A sword was girt at his side and a green shield with a running white horse was slung across his back. His eyes were bright and alert and his face was thin for a hobbit, but it suited him in some way; it made him handsome. Taken altogether, he was a magnificent figure, a lost hobbit-lord out of old tales.

She suddenly remembered that she was wearing her roughest old dress and that she had pulled her curly hair back into an unbecoming braid, and that she had not washed her face that morning. She flushed crimson as she ducked her head a little. "Won't you come in, Master Merry? What a pleasant surprise."

"Hello, Stella; you're not going to start all that 'master' nonsense again, are you?" he laughed as he came in, jingling his mail-shirt. "I've come to see old Fatty, if he's up and kicking."

"He is. I mean he's up. Won't you stay to supper? He did kick a settee today. He didn't see it coming and it banged his toes a good bit. He says it kicked him." And having thus fairly mangled her invitation betwixt a backwards recounting of her brother's clumsiness, she turned and ran for the kitchen. "Mum!" she hissed, ducking through the doorway. " _Merry Brandybuck_ is here and we've got nothing for supper but _pork_!"

"Goodness me! Well, set an extra place for him - no, better move supper to the dining room altogether. And rummage in the cellar for any preserves for the bread, but Essie, it's not as if there's anything better to be had this winter. He'll be eating similar stuff at home in Brandy Hall, I daresay. Do stop fluttering, dear."

"You act as if he was a normal lad just dropped in to sup!" her daughter said between her teeth as she gathered up the plates with an impressive amount of rattling. She was not quite over tween hysterics and she felt that she could not have looked dowdier if she had rolled in the mud of the pigpens. Consequently she looked flushed and nervous and cross and altogether nearly as unlovely as she thought when she carried the pewter forks and coloured glass plates into the proper dining room across from the parlour and suddenly remembered that she had left their honored guest standing alone in the front hall.

"Drat!" she muttered, dropping the things pell-mell onto the table, which was as close to swearing as she knew how to come. "Drat, bebother, and _confound_ it!" She straightened her skirt as best she could, ran her fingers over her braid - as if that would magically make it straighter or better suited to her freckled face - and pasted on a smile. Then she returned to the hallway and dropped a slight curtsey. "Sorry; Da and Fred are in the sitting parlour; I'll show you in, if you please."

The Hero of Buckland looked both amused and mildly horrified by this speech so she could only assume that she looked a worse fright that she had thought. Her cheeks burned with the humiliation of it as she conducted him into the sitting room and blurted out, "Here's Merry Brandybuck to see you, Fred," before darting past said Brandybuck into the safety of the dining room, there to muddle the place settings more than ever.

* * *

*November in Shire Reckoning


	8. On Her Worst Behavior

**On Her Worst Behavior**

(corresponds to Chapter 9 of Book 6)

* * *

In spite of Estella's horror over the lack of proper food and desserts and ale, dinner was a lively affair as far as Fredegar and Merry were concerned. Naturally, the thin and prison-worn hobbit wanted to know all about where Frodo and Merry and the others had gone, but not as much as he wanted to dwell on what a hero he himself was and how bravely he had faced the privations of the Lockholes. Merry bore the exchange in better humor - he had always been more sanguine than the well-meaning but somewhat moody Bolger-lad - and listened and talked with great animation. Odovacar and Rosamunda exclaimed, laughed, or cried a little as the occasion demanded, and almost forgot to eat in thanking Merry for setting their boy free.

Only Estella stared silently at her plate, speaking no more than a dozen words through the whole meal. She wanted to cry, but pride restrained her. She was already horrid enough; she would not add red eyes and weeping to the ruin.

At last, when they had all eaten as much as was on the table - which was not, by hobbit standards, really enough, but it was so very much more than the table had boasted all through last winter - she began to clear away while the men retired again to the sitting room to chat and smoke and while away the evening hours. She was fully prepared to clean and stew over the dishes about visitors at bad times and mended dresses and, oh innumerable other tiny important things, when her mother's voice cut through her brown study.

"I'll get the dishes, Essie; run and put on your blue gown, there's a good girl."

Utterly confused, all she could do was turn and blink owlishly at her mother. "What?"

Rosamunda chuckled warmly and kissed her daughter's forehead. "You just do it, my love. And brush your hair, too, before you go to the parlour."

"What are you on about, Mum?" she demanded stupidly.

The hobbit matron only laughed again and shoved her toward the hall. "Go on!"

She did as she was bid, though slowly and without any spirit. The blue frock had been a gift from Aunt Tulip three years before, and Estella had always suspected it was an attempt to get her interested in dresses and ribbons and away from tween mischief. It had been made for a plumper figure than she had ever possessed, but Rosamunda had taken it in until it suited Estella's slim little waist, though she had hardly ever worn it since. Her hair was knotted from being stuffed into a braid all day and it took her a few minutes to smooth it out into frizzy copper curls, even with the aid of water from the washbasin, which she also used to liberally scrub her face. A tiny looking-glass over the basin displayed a face that was at least clean and tidy now, though a furrow between her brows still disfigured the dimples in her cheeks. "Too little too late," she muttered, turning away from the glass and trotting back out to the kitchen. But Rosamunda, standing at the wooden tub for washing dishes and buried up to her elbows in soap suds, caught her at the first step.

"Essie dear, would you take that plate of cheese and bread in for the boys? I'm sure they'd like to toast some over the fire. Nothing better than a nip of toasted cheese on cold nights." She nodded toward an already prepared platter with slices of hard bread and ripe cheese - the last of their winter store - on the wooden chopping block near the stove.

There was nothing, at this particular moment, that "Essie dear" would have liked to do _less_ than go and turn once more into a dowdy little wallflower, but she chewed her lips to prevent a refusal slipping out and darted for the platter, nearly spilling the bread as she whirled it around toward the comfortable little parlour.

It was a pretty room, for Rosamunda had taste, and yet not so pretty that it was not homelike, for Odovacar was practical. The wood floors were polished until they gleamed the color of amber syrup, and there were a few braided rugs made out of the softest scraps of pine-green cloth to comfort weary feet. The back wall boasted a stone fireplace with a clean hearth and some little mathoms artfully arranged on the mantlepiece. The three round windows - two facing the side yard looking down toward the rest of Budgeford and the Water and one facing the kitchen garden at the back - were hung with pale green curtains edged with creamy lace, which were currently drawn shut to keep out the frosty air. The two couches were nearly smothered in tan cushions embroidered with a pattern of roses in pale pinks and yellows, and Fredegar was lounging on one of these, comfortably sipping a mug of weak ale. Odovacar was standing by the mantlepiece, puffing away at a short pipe with a wide bowl and filling the room with the spicy-sweet fragrance of Sweet Lobelia, his favorite leaf. Merry sat near Fred on a cushioned stool, having discarded his sword and outer cloak in the dining room, and was laughing gaily at some joke which had just passed.

None of them quite noticed the moment when Estella slipped in and went to the fire for the tongs, but presently, Fredregar interrupted his father's recounting of Lotho's tearing down the old Budgeford Mill to say in a plaintive voice, "Not too brown, Essie; you know I like soft cheese."

"Yes, alright, Fatty," she replied softly, toasting the treat and her face at the same time, but the damage was done. All three were now looking at her and she wilted under the kindly-meant stares.

"Bless me, when did you come in, Essie?" her father asked, startled but not displeased. "I'll have a piece when you're done with Fred's and Master Merry's, my dear."

"Alright, da," she replied in the same undertone, not daring to take her eyes off the end of the toasting fork now. Fortunately, Odovacar went on with his tale and all attention shifted away from her.

She went on, toasting and passing round the cheese for several minutes until she had served all but the last slice, which she intended to save for her mother. She rose silently and slipped out of the room, but not before hearing, "Thanks, Essie," from her father and then their guest. That was worse than anything. "Essie" from Merry Brandybuck! That horrid babyish nickname preferred over "Stella"! She choked back tears - though she hardly knew what she was angry over - and ran to her room.

About two minutes later the door softly opened and her mother's hand touched her hair. "Oh, I know, lass," she murmured. "I know."

" _I_ don't!" Estella managed to get out between hiccups. "I don't know what's come over me, Mum. I can't have eaten anything that was gone sour, and I didn't touch the ale."

Rosamunda laughed sadly. "Oh my little one. How fast you've grown up." She sat on the bed - where Estella lay sprawled in a miserable heap with her face burrowed into a feather pillow - and patted her daughter's back. "Why don't you go for a nice walk instead? Didn't you say you'd found a wild chestnut tree with a few nuts still on it?"

Estella nodded, her spasms dying slowly, and sat up, wiping her eyes on her sleeves. "I saved you a piece," she offered, picking up the platter from the chest at the end of her bed where she had set it, hardly caring at the moment if it landed cheese-down on the carpet.

Rosamunda's eyes sparkled delightedly. "That's my sweet Essie. You run on and find some peace and quiet. I'll wait up till you come back." She took the tray and the treat and left the room, closing the door behind her. Estella dried her eyes again and began unbuttoning the wretched blue frock. Maybe a tramp over the cold moonlit fields would cheer her up or calm her down or fix whatever was wrong with her. At any rate, it would get her out of the house!


	9. A Bath Will Do You Good

**A Bath Will Do You Good**

(corresponds to Chapter 9 of Book 6)

* * *

Merry Brandybuck came several times to see Fatty that winter; sometimes alone, but more often with Pippin Took or Samwise Gamgee, who was bustling from one end of the Shire to the other to help replant uprooted trees with the aid of soil from a far away Elf-land. Whenever they came and however many of them there were, Estella helped serve the supper and promptly hid in her room to read maps or sew or stare at the ceiling or else went outside to tend the pony and pigs. Consequently, she hardly saw the Travellers, as folks were beginning to call the four hobbits who had saved the Shire from Lotho and Sharkey after running off who-knows-where on some foolish May-lark, until well after the spring had started. Winter had been a narrow scrape for all the Shire in terms of food, but Sharkey had kept enough stores at Bag End and the Shirriff-Houses to supplement what little folk had squirreled away. And at any rate, anything was better than the gatherers and sharers!

Now, with the warm sun coaxing shoots from the ground and with new trees springing up everywhere from Sam Gamgee's Elf magic, things were a bit easier. And everyone was almost as cheerful as if the bad years had never happened, even Estella on the days when she did not have to dodge to stay out of sight.

She lay now, on a bright Astron* morning, on the banks of the Brandywine some hundred yards north of the Bridge, fishing under the pale blue sky which was still faintly tinged with gold from the sunrise. She had already caught a dozen or so trout and they waited in a little reed basket at the water's edge, kept fresh by the slow cold current flowing over them. She was wearing her borrowed breeches and tunic - not that she ever intended to give them back to Fatty at this point, as that would only bring down a lecture about proper behavior in a sister - and leaning back in the new grass. Her left hand idly twitched her pole, giving some life to her hooked worm under the murky water, but her right was playing with the little pale blue star on her silver chain.

She had not really forgotten the dark times, or the feeling of hunger and despair and - most horrible of all - the sickening twang of her bow as it released an arrow to cut down a Big Man in midstep. She was not blighted by the memories, nor made silent and solemn or cowardly, but they did swim before her eyes from time to time and then she preferred to get away and talk to herself. Being a practical hobbit lass, she also tended to spend her lonely hours finding food of some kind, which was why she was fishing on such a lonely spot at the edge of the Shire. She had gotten up before the sun, shaking and shivering from a nightmare, and come right out to the river, where the quiet and stillness soothed her until all her fears faded away with the dying night. Soon she ought to go back for breakfast, but it was so delightfully cool and fresh and comfortable on the grassy bank that she had not yet quite made up her mind to get up.

The sound of distant pony hooves clip-clopping on the Bridge and fair hobbit-voices came to her ears as she lay staring up at the clouds, but she paid them no mind, studying the whispy white streams and making different shapes out of them: a duck, a lass sewing a very long cloak, a sword, a dragon whose wings were all mangled up with its front arms, and even a tall tower crowned with a pointed roof, something she could only vaguely picture from Uncle Bilbo's stories. She was trying to decide if the haphazard swirl just overhead was a washtub or an eye when a shadow fell on her. "Hey there, lad, have you got time to run back to Brandy Hall and deliver a message for me?"

Estella sat up indignantly, dropping her fishing pole. "Lad indeed! Is the message that your eyes are failing?" she demanded of the stranger, who stood in front of her and was therefore obscured by the sunlight.

"Essie Bolger?"

She wished very much to find a convenient hole and crawl into it. "Oh. It's you, Master Merry."

He laughed sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck. "I, er, beg your pardon. It seems my eyes _are_ failing me."

"No, I beg yours," she replied humbly, getting to her feet and taking off the cap that had constrained her wild copper curls. She itched to brush the grass off her breeches, but she feared to call any further attention to them. Besides, she could hardly look any less presentable than she already did. Somewhere inside, her pride struck the flint of her native courage and she flung her chin up to look him boldly in the face as carelessly as if she was a beauty with her Sunday best on. "What was the message you needed to send?"

"Oh, it isn't necessary; I only just thought of sending it and you seemed a convenient... " he trailed off, turning around to find the source of a slithery sort of noise. Estella followed his gaze and was just in time to see her pole being dragged into the water by what must be a particularly large fish. Without thinking, she dove for the slim birch stick. At the same moment, he rushed for it too, so that they both smacked into each other, tumbled into the shallow water, and came up without the pole at all.

She was sopping wet and muddy all over and some duckweed had found a convenient lodging in her hair. The water was cold enough to make her shiver and the silt was slippery and felt odd between her bare toes. And she burst out laughing because Meriadoc Brandybuck looked just as cold and dirty and bedraggled as she did, except it was worse in his case because he had on a silver mailshirt that made him look like a fish. A moment later, he was laughing too, until they could hardly drag themselves back to dry ground, slipping and sloshing all the way while tears streamed down their cheeks.

"Old fellow, when I said you needed a bath, I didn't mean you should take one right now," Pippin Took commented, trotting up on his own pony and just as lordly-looking as his friend, except that he was perfectly dry and making no attempt to hide his grin.

Estella choked on another fit of giggles and rolled in the grass like a young colt to dry off a bit. Merry flung water weeds from his hair and started working off his mail as he replied, "If you give an order, Captain Took, you ought to think about what will happen if it's obeyed." He got stuck with his wet cloak dragging on the metal links, halfway in and out of the armor, and laughed harder at his own predicament.

"Here," she offered, standing up and deftly freeing the caught threads for him, still giggling. He got the mailshirt off at last and flung it over one arm to bow to her. "You have my thanks, fair maiden," he teased, grinning.

She snorted. "You thought I was a lad," she reminded him, sticking out her tongue while her blue eyes twinkled.

"Consider my eyes mended by the ducking and let's say no more about it," he jested, flinging his cloak over one shoulder to purposefully whip water at her. She squealed and wiped it out of her eyes, laughing. Atop his brown roan pony, Pippin seemed helpless to do anything but snicker. "Lawks, Merry, Fatty will skin you alive. Teaching Essie to swim! It's unnatural for a respectable hobbit!"

That was funnier than ever and they all laughed again, their clear young voices ringing out over the water. At last, the fit calmed and Estella had recovered enough to begin trying to pull green stuff out of her hair. Her fingers brushed her neck and her eyes widened. "Oh, no!" she gasped and trotted back into the shallow water, peering down into the brown murk anxiously.

"What's wrong, Essie?" Merry asked, still wringing river water from his clothes.

"I've lost my necklace!" She savagely bit her lip, bending to feel through the soft mud in hopes of meeting the hard jewel with her fingertips.

Pippin swung off his pony and came to the edge, looking through the short green grass. "What does it look like?"

"A little blue star on a long silver chain," she answered through the tight lump that was stealing up her throat. She couldn't have lost it, she couldn't!

Merry waded back in a few feet to her right and began to feel about for the lost jewel. Pippin assiduously searched along the bank and in the young reeds at the edge of the water. Several minutes passed in near silence and Estella had nearly lost all hope when Merry gave a cry of triumph and drew the necklace, wet and muddy, out of the Brandywine.

"Oh, thank you!" she said fervently, snatching the proffered jewel and carefully rinsing it clean in the top layer of the river. It shone in the morning sunlight, periwinkle and glittering argent, and she gladly lifted it to slide the chain over her head again.

"Is it an old family mathom?" Merry asked curiously, shaking off wetness as he trotted ashore again. "I think I've seen it before."

She shook her head. "No, I found it." Before she could tuck it back under the collar of her green tunic, Pippin caught up one end curiously. A moment later, he whistled through his teeth. "I should think you had seen it! It's one of the Barrow-treasures, Merry, that Old Tom left out in the grass."

"So it is!" the scion of the Brandybucks exclaimed, coming closer to examine it. Somewhat annoyed, Estella removed the necklace again and passed it to Pippin. "However did you find it, Essie?"

"I tripped on it," she replied truthfully enough. Having her sole treasure pawed by outsiders reminded her of the time when as a child not yet out of her teens she had been silly enough to tell Fatty that she liked Milden Burrow. Her brother had promptly told Milden - along with half of Budgeford - and they had a good laugh over her while she hid in the apple orchard and smashed old fruit against the tree trunks until she stopped crying. Though, she reminded herself, she was no teen lass with over-sensitive feelings anymore; she was almost two years past her coming of age and Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took were hardly likely to laugh at her.

"On the Downs?" Pippin repeated incredulously, glancing from her to the stone and back again. He and Merry were both so tall that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

"If you ever tell Fatty, I _swear_ I'll haunt you both!" she hissed.

World-wise and lordly as they were, they both seemed intimidated for just a moment by her transformation into a spitting cat. Then Pippin grinned and mimed locking his mouth shut. "As long as you tell us what you were doing out there, that is," he added, raising one eyebrow. Merry looked scarcely less curious as he handed the necklace back to its owner.

She slipped the jewel back on and hurriedly tucked it out of sight. "I got lost on my way to Bree-town and wandered down into the Downs. A wild pony showed me the jewels and then let me ride him back to the Road and then to Bree. I brought the necklace home and cleaned it up. That's all."

The Brandybuck's brow furrowed. "But why were you going to Bree at all?"

She set her fair little mouth in a hard line, remembering. "Because Lotho had Fatty locked up, and nobody was going to _do_ anything!" The Travellers were silent, so she continued to fill the space. "I know it wasn't a good plan; you needn't tell me so."

Pippin laughed and clapped her on the shoulder, knocking her forward a pace or two with the strength of the blow. "That's a Took for you!"

Wide-eyed, she stared at them both in confusion. "You mean you don't think it was stupid?"

Merry smiled and shook his head. "Essie, we've been away in far lands among tall Men and Elves and fought armies of Orcs. You'll hardly find us thinking that leaving the Shire is a bad plan. You were very brave, if anything. What happened when you got to Bree?"

She wrinkled her pert little nose. "Nothing, that's what happened. They all had their own worries and bad Men coming up from the South and no time to spare to help the Shire. And," she added in a softer tone, "it did seem like they had little more food than we did and more worries, so I suppose it was true. But a hobbit-lad come down from Staddle made me a bow and taught me how to use it and had me memorize how he carved it. He said if we couldn't get help from outside, we'd have to help ourselves. So I brought it back and took it to your da, Pippin, and he set every lad and lass who could carve a straight line to making bows. Then Tooks started fighting back, keeping the Big Men off their land." She huffed at the memory. "I tried to get them to do it in Budgeford, too, but they just haven't got enough Fallohide in 'em, I guess. Poor scared old things."

She had become lost in her own story and when she blinked and looked at her audience again, both Pippin and Merry had bright grins on their faces. "Estella Bolger, you're a _trump_!" the young Took declared. "D'you know, I never even thought to ask where all my folk got weapons when there haven't been any in the Shire time out of mind? I'm just so used to seeing armies I forgot!"

"I haven't told anyone but your da about it; it wasn't very, erm, respectable." She crossed her ankles shyly.

"It was clean brilliant, that's what it was," Pippin cried, laughing. "I could kiss you!"

Estella giggled at the idea and her shoulders relaxed. She hadn't really told anyone, not even her mum, why she had gone away and what she had done. It felt freeing to know that she was approved for such unladylike behavior instead of scolded.

But Merry wasn't laughing anymore. He was staring at her thoughtfully - as thoughtfully as anyone could be who had fallen into a muddy river wearing velvet breeches - as if he had never seen her before. It made her squirm and she felt her cheeks flush. The transformation into a dowdy little wallflower was imminent, so she hurriedly scooped up her fish basket and started trotting for home, calling out over her shoulder, "Good day, you two!"

She heard Pippin's cheerful reply, but Merry was silent.

* * *

*April in Shire Reckoning


	10. Going to One Wedding

**Going to One Wedding...**

(Corresponds to Chapter 9 of Book 6)

* * *

It was the first day of Thrimidge*, the month of plenty and bright flowers, and a large party of joyous, bright-eyed hobbits all dressed in their Sunday best were gathered under the young mallorn-tree halfway up the Hill. They were a silent crowd as the mid morning sun threw cheerful rays on the golden flowers of the tree, for only three voices ought to be speaking during a wedding: the Mayor, the bride, and the groom. The post of Mayor was still filled being by Frodo Baggins as Will Whitfoot was not yet properly recovered from the Lockholes. But no one regretted the exchange, for Frodo's thin pale face looked so happy it was almost as if he were a normal hobbit as he continued the lengthy blessings over the heads of Samwise Gamgee and the fair Rose Cotton.

Shire weddings took a long time to get through, which was why, as a rule, they began at sunrise so that the afternoon could be devoted to feasting and dancing and more feasting. Long ceremonies and longer words of legal binding were beloved by the simple folk, as long as the formalities were all rather repetitive and followed the customs of old.

"And since you, Samwise Gamgee have bound yourself to Rose Cotton, daughter of Tolman Cotton, son of Holman Cotton, in all things: life, death, health, sickness, famine, plenty, joy, sorrow, sun, rain, planting, and harvest," Frodo paused for breath, "and you Rose have likewise bound yourself to Samwise Gamgee, son of Hamfast Gamgee, son of Hobson Gamgee, in all things: life, death, health, sickness, famine, plenty, joy, sorrow, sun, rain, planting, and harvest," he again had to snatch a breath, "you are now so bound in matrimony and wedlock by the authority of the interim Mayor of the Shire, which office descends from the power of the King which none may gainsay. Therefore you are bound and not to be separated though the Sea rise or the Mountains fall. May you always have plentiful food and many young mouths to help you eat it."

Everyone chuckled at that line, as they did at every wedding.

"You may seal this bond with a kiss," Frodo added, arching a brow in Sam's direction.

Sam gulped and turned pale, but Rosie only laughed and flung her bouquet of white roses away into the crowd - there was a general shuffle to try and catch it - before kissing her new husband with gusto. Sam was stunned into paralysis only for a moment and he did not seem at all unhappy with the situation when he recovered himself. Indeed, their kiss went on a good five seconds longer than might be considered really proper. But then, he was one of the Travelers and had picked up foreign ideas and no one really minded.

When the couple came up for air, grinning like mad and with hands intertwined, Frodo loudly proclaimed, "My good gentlehobbits, I beg your leave to present Mister and Missus Samwise Gamgee!"

The crowd burst into cheers and whistles as the bride curtseyed prettily and the groom bowed clumsily, and the pack of small Cottons and Roper-Gamgee cousins jumped about like ponies gone wild. Estella Bolger, sitting between her brother and father, put two fingers in her mouth and whistled as loud as she could while smiling. Any wedding was always a happy time, but this one was especially special. Half the Shire had turned up to see one of the Travelers married, regardless of relations, because everyone had a special interest in those four lads.

And there was finally enough food to feed them all to bursting; the long wooden tables set up in a wide circle around the tree were so loaded with fresh berries and cream and pasties and crisp vegetables and pies and ale that they groaned. Though the cheers and clapping went on so long that one might almost believe the crowd had turned up more to see the union of the Cottons and the Gamgees than for the eatables. But at last, when it was just about time for elevensies, the crowd broke from the shade of the mallorn and distributed themselves among the tables, where drink flowed and food steamed with regular Shire magnificence. Some of the younger hobbits, once they had snatched a bite or two, struck up a dance in the center of the circle of tables while an eager trio of tweens bid fair to set their fiddles and flute aflame with the speed of their clever fingers.

Estella, more inclined to move than to sit, wolfed down a meat pastie before joining in the dance. She had rather disdained the frills and bows her aunts had foisted on her as a child to try to make her "ladylike", but she had always loved the excitement of cotillions and reels. Consequently, she stepped well, as the saying went, and she had to split the first dance between two partners. A pretty figure she made in her blue frock with her copper curls bouncing over her shoulders and her azure eyes sparkling, though she was only half-conscious of it. When the first dance was over, all the dancers turned and cheered the bride and groom again, as was custom, and the happy couple saluted back from the middle of the chief and longest table.

The fiddlers and flute-player struck up a new tune and Estella, cheeks flushed like the sky at dawn, nearly tripped over someone's foot before a hand steadied her. She stilled as she regained her balance and grinned in a friendly way at the owner of the helpful hand. "Hullo, Merry."

"Hullo, Essie," he replied, half-smiling and keeping one hand behind his back. He was impeccably dressed in his polished silver mail and green and white tunic marked with a running horse, looking as lordly as ever. In fact, she thought privately that he rather outshone the groom, who was wearing a fine waistcoat and puffy-sleeved shirt, but nothing out of the common way. "Will you dance? I brought a bribe if I need it." Merry drew his hidden hand out and presented one of the white roses from Rosie's bouquet. "It's supposed to be lucky, you know."

Her smile became ever so slightly less genuine, more forced. "I'd have danced with you without a bribe, silly. I dance with everyone at weddings."

"Lucky for me," he commented, still taking a moment to deftly weave the flower into her hair above her right ear before he took her hand.

They bobbed and whirled and skipped about with the rest of the young dancers. They were graceful and well-matched in spite of the fact that he was a good nine inches taller than she. And since the reel did not require them to touch beyond hands, Estella did her level best to just focus on the music and enjoy it. Faster and faster the fiddles sang, and she matched her feet to it until at last no one could keep up anymore and they all fell to the ground roaring with laughter.

The tumble did her good, she realized as she scrambled back to her feet and grinned at Merry. He was, after all, just a lad under all his fine clothes and armour. What was there to be afraid of? Feeling daring, she snatched a bowl of early strawberries from the nearest table and popped a few into her mouth before holding the bowl out for him. Merry was laughing, but there was a serious light in his eyes as he chewed the sweet fruit. She paid it no mind. Brandybuck or no, she was going to enjoy this wedding and not get flustered.

"Estella," Merry said when he had a chance of being heard over the cheers and merriment, "will you walk with me for a moment?"

It was fortunate she had made her resolution or her cheeks might have turned pale and her smile faded. As it was, she said carelessly - or nearly carelessly - "No, thank you, I'd rather dance just now." She made a show of looking round for another partner. More and more of the younger hobbits were joining the dancing circle in between rounds at the tables, so there was no lack of young lads.

"Well, then will you dance with me?" Merry inquired as quietly as he could.

"What, again?" she laughed. "Captain Brandybuck, if you're using me because you're afraid of the other lasses sighing at you and fluttering their lashes, I warn you I am not going to be your hedge to hide behind."

His mouth pursed firmly, as if the idea was repellent. "I'm not using you. I just prefer dancing with you."

She blinked and looked up at him steadily for the first time that day. His brown eyes, bright and confident as they looked while he held out his hand to her, stirred her pride. He was expecting her to say yes. "I'm sorry, Master Merry," she said in a playful tone as she curtseyed, "you'll have to wait your turn." She spun on her heel and walked away. Milden Burrow was not long in claiming her for the next round and she never looked back.

* * *

*May in Shire Reckoning


	11. You Don't Mean That

**You Don't Mean That**

(Corresponds to Chapter 9 of Book 6)

* * *

She had almost forgotten the exchange by mid afternoon. Estella was sitting on a bench, nibbling a jam tart and listening while Frodo, several seats away, told a story about Sam and his adventures beyond the Boundaries. If it was even half true - and she suspected it had all really happened - Sam was braver and stronger and more faithful a friend than she had ever given him credit for. The poor Gamgee flushed in embarrassment and kept ducking his head as if he would like to hide under the table. But Rosie drew him out again and kissed him on the slightest provocation and any time Frodo mentioned something peculiarly brave. What lad would have hidden after that?

"They're lovely together," she sighed as she nearly tried to drink from the salt cellar instead of her glass.

Fatty, who sat next to her and to whom the remark was mostly addressed, snorted. "They're silly, that's what. All that kissing in public ain't decent."

Estella sat up straight and hissed, "Fredegar Bolger, you sound more and more like _Cousin Azalea_. Is that who you want to be for the rest of your life?"

His eyes widened at the awful impression. "Heavens, no, Essie!"

"Then stop trying to stick your nose up and admit you're jealous because Sam's got a pretty girl who stares at him with stars in her eyes and you've none," his sister said firmly.

He wilted and crammed a buttered roll in his mouth. "Awight, 'm jewous."

She smiled victoriously. "Better. Now, if you want a girl, don't sit with the old men and puff your pipe; go dance! Find some young and foolish beauty to sigh over the lad who endured the Lockholes."

He swallowed hastily. "You know, Essie, for a sister you're not half bad."

She snorted. "Thanks for that glowing commendation. I suggest Snowdrop Hornblower, while you're taking advice. She's sweet and she won't titter."

There was still dancing going on at the far end of the circle away from Frodo's tale. Fatty took a last fortifying swig of ale and trotted over to the merry whirl of feet and twirling skirts and Estella turned her focus back to the story. She almost failed to notice when someone slipped into the spot her brother had vacated, but his mail shirt jingled so loudly she could hardly ignore it.

"Is it my turn yet?"

She kept her face toward Frodo, but her hands, buried in the lap of her dress, clenched for some reason. "Not yet; I'd rather listen than dance just now."

Merry shifted, making the bench creak. "Come on, Essie; I only want to talk to you for five minutes. You were happy enough to see me last week at Budgeford."

"Do I give you the impression I don't want to see you now?" she inquired, with an almost perfect impression of Aunt Tulip's snooty tone. She heard it, winced, and hated herself for it, but she couldn't seem to stop.

"Very clearly, Stella," he whispered, and she heard rather than saw the frown that disfigured his mouth. "I thought we were friends."

It was the use of the dear nickname that did it; she might not have softened so soon otherwise. But the elegant little sobriquet which she thought he had forgotten made her stomach flip with uneasy pleasure. She turned to face him, looking up penitently through her lashes. "I'm sorry; we are friends and I… that is, if you want to talk, let's get away from the table where it's quiet."

A slow smile dawned on his face and he offered her his hand to help her up as he sprang to his own feet. She let him help her up and he seemed satisfied as he tucked her arm into his own, rather as if he meant to keep it. Merry lead her a bit away from the main celebration, heading up toward the top of the Hill. They had not got quite to the front door of Bag End when she cleared her throat. "Alright, what did you want to talk about?"

"You," he replied simply, keeping up a slow but steady pace as they ambled. "I want to ask you to walk out with me."

Estella pulled back and away to free her arm. "That's not funny," she said sharply. Her mouth twisted into a frown as her pretty colour bled away.

"Of course it isn't; I'm serious," he replied, frowning in his own turn. "I've already talked to your parents."

"Merry Brandybuck, these low pranks are below you now that you're out of your tweens," she sniffed. She had never been so outraged and hurt and humiliated in her life, and she wanted to cry but she would never give him the satisfaction.

"Essie, what do I have to do to show you I'm in earnest?" he demanded, reaching for her hand again.

Oh, that horrid baby-name. As if she needed further proof! Pippin was probably hiding somewhere nearby to share in the joke and snicker at her when she fell for it! She stepped out of reach and scrambled over a little stone wall that marked the path to Bag End. "You can drop the joke, that's what. It's in bad taste, anyway."

"Essie, do you have someone you're… fond of?" he asked in a very small voice.

"No!" It came out a little stronger than she meant it to, and his eyes lit up again. "Not you nor anyone," she added, ducking away as he leaped the wall and tried to corner her. "Now, if we are friends, you will drop this, this _pretense_ at once!"

He was larger and stronger and faster than she was, so perhaps it was inevitable that he caught her hand again. "Tell me how I can prove it. I'm serious as Shire-talk, Essie," he demanded again, resisting her attempts to squirm free. "Please."

"First, let go of my hand," she commanded coldly. He did so. "Second, ask me again in six months."

Merry blinked. "Why six months?"

"Because you'll have forgotten the joke by then and I'll have the satisfaction of pointing it out to you," she snipped. "And then maybe you'll see that it's not very nice to call a girl your friend and then pretend to like her."

He tensed and for a moment she wondered if he would admit the whole thing was an awful prank and ask her forgiveness. Then his face cleared. "Alright. Six months from now, I'll ask you again. And when I do, you promise, remember, to take it seriously."

"I always take _my_ word seriously." Estella nodded crisply and turned back to the party. He would never remember such a silly little thing in half a year. But she would. And it would likely still hurt then too. For she had realized all in a moment that there was no one in Middle-Earth she would rather walk out with than Meriadoc Brandybuck.


	12. In the Bleak Mid Autumn

**In the Bleak Mid Autumn**

(corresponds to Chapter 9 of Book 6)

* * *

Estella hummed to herself as she raked a pile of hay out of the tidy bales over to a hole in the floor of the loft of the barn so she could push it down into the brown work pony's trough. She liked the smell of the warm clean barn in Blotmath, when the cold and wet of the outdoors was miserable rather than welcoming and country tramps were more of a chore than a joy. She had to step carefully - the barn was absolutely crammed with hay bales and bins of barley and wheat and barrels of apples and potatoes and salted trout and all manner of good things. The harvest had been the best in memory, perhaps the best in the history of the Shire. No one would go hungry all winter and they could feast at Yule-tide as much as they wished. Rosamunda had already planned out a maple sugar cake four layers tall for when they invited all their Bolger and Took relations over on Fatty's birthday in a few weeks. Estella licked her lips in anticipation whenever she thought of it.

Below her, as the pony nickered his thanks for the golden rain that she shoved down, the barn door opened, letting in a blast of damp air. "Close it quick, Fatty; I haven't got my muffler on!" she complained without looking as she moved to give the two cows their share of straw.

He complied and a moment later she heard him climbing the ladder to the hayloft. That surprised her; Fatty had always hated the loft because of how high off the ground it was. He said it made him giddy and he had always made her do the chores and fetching up there ever since they were little. She turned to comment on his unusual bravery and chalk it up to the fact that Snowdrop had made eyes at him last marketday. But it wasn't Fatty at all.

"Hullo, Essie."

"Hullo, Merry. What are you doing up here? And dressed like that?"

He was not decked out in his usual foreign gear that made him look like a grand knight out of the old days. He wore a simple warm tunic of good Southfarthing cotton dyed blue and thick breeches of brown linen. He had tucked his gloves into his simple belt, so very different from the rich silver one he usually wore that glittered in the smallest amount of light. His only weapon was a sturdy knife - big enough to be a small dagger for a hobbit - made of steel and stamped with a horse head on the pommel. Over all he had a cloak which shifted from green to grey with the light and was clasped at the neck with a brooch shaped like a vibrant green leaf. "Well, I… to be honest," he hesitated, "I just thought I'd better try the opposite of everything from last time."

"Last time?" she repeated, utterly confused. "What are you on about?"

He smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes. "Don't tell me you forgot your promise, Essie. Six months ago today?"

She frowned, thinking. Six months ago would have been Thrimidge; had something happened on the first of Thrimidge? She had been so busy all summer and autumn and all the days seemed to blend together into a long happy whirl of food and laughter.

He stepped forward and caught her hand as she idly swept with the rake, stilling her movements. The touch made her jump - he was quite definitely trembling, though he tried to hide it. And it also recalled in vivid detail a day in the spring sunshine when she had flung him off and stalked away, certain that the joke was only a moment's whim on his part. She tried to speak, but her voice seemed to have deserted her.

"You promised to listen seriously this time," he reminded her, gently stroking the back of her right hand as they both gripped the rake. "If I ask again, will you keep that promise?"

"You can't mean it," she whispered, staring at his collar because looking up at his face would take more boldness than even she possessed. "You just can't. I'm only Essie; only Fatty's baby sister."

Merry paused, considering. "Do you… not like being called Essie?"

"I _hate_ it," she replied honestly, swallowing hard.

"Why do you let everyone call you that, then?" he wondered, leaning just an inch closer. She wondered what expression was on his face but she didn't dare look.

Estella shrugged and tried to laugh. "Have you ever tried to stop half the Shire? Besides, mum and da think it's sweet."

"You prefer being called Estella, then?" He took a half-step forward, closing most of the distance between them. She thought she might be able to hear his heartbeat if her own were not pounding so loudly in her ears.

"I… I like Stella best," she managed in a voice hardly above a whisper.

"Stella, look at me," he requested, holding the rake with one hand so he could guide her chin up with the other. Their eyes met and she gulped again. With his finery cast aside, he looked like the lad she had known years before; the sweet, funny boy who had made jokes about a runaway pig and cheered Bilbo's stories and nicked fireworks from old Gandalf. But there was something new in his face too, and it was more than just his added height; a light of maturity and wisdom. Just below his curly hair his brow bore a curved brown scar she had never noticed before. He had seen darkness, worse than anything she had seen in the Shire, she was sure, but it had not tainted him. He was only more sure of himself and more kindly because he had been among great Elves and Men and Dwarves and fought alongside them.

And his brown eyes drank in the sight of her blue ones as if she was the most beautiful thing in Middle-Earth. "Please, will you walk out with me?" he breathed.

In that moment, Estella Bolger did not remember she had hay in her hair. Nor did she recollect that she was wearing an old shapeless work dress that was patched with so many odd scraps of cloth it resembled a sickly rainbow. She could hardy remember to breathe. He was serious. He wanted her, out all the girls in the Shire and Buckland; he had remembered her promise even when she had forgotten. Very low, she answered, "Yes, Merry."

He grinned and it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. But she was not allowed to admire his handsome smile long; he leaned in and pecked her cheek, softly as the brush of a butterfly wing. Her stomach flopped again and she giggled, a trifle hysterically. With such encouragement, it was natural that he promptly pecked the other one, chuckling as he did so. "Where shall we go?" he whispered.

The rake clattered to the floor of the loft unheeded, as they both seemed to have decided they would rather hold hands than tools. Estella shrugged and giggled again. "Do we have to go somewhere?"

"Well, in general," he replied, his eyes sparkling with mischief and satisfaction as he gently pushed a lock of her hair behind her tapered ear, "I think walking out implies you walk somewhere. Though now I think about it, I never really stopped to ask my mother about such things. Shall I run and do it now?"

"Oh, so you're just going to ask and leave?" she replied archly. Below, the cows mooed a protest over the lack of forthcoming dinner but neither the lass nor the lad really heard the poor beasts.

"Well, I was rather imagining we'd go together," he answered, pretending to consider. "Unless you don't fancy supper at Brandy Hall and a ride back in the moonlight?"

She hummed, a little serious, and absently fixed the turn of his collar. "Have you, er, told them about…?"

"Us?" he finished, grinning. "Not officially. My da has been telling me all summer to 'stop mooning' but I wanted to be sure you'd say yes before I let it spread all over the Four Farthings."

She snickered a little and squeezed the hand that was intertwined with her own. "Does Fatty know?" she asked, grinning slyly.

"Ha! He'd have tried to flay me alive before I got up here if he suspected," Merry snorted, squeezing back. "Your da and mum do, though. I asked them back before Sam's wedding."

"You told me; I'd forgotten." She shook her head. "They're awfully patient. I didn't hear a word about it from either of them. What did they say when you asked?"

Merry's eyes crinkled happily and he bent to kiss the hand he held with only a little exaggerated gallantry. The butterflies roosting in her stomach once more loudly proclaimed their existence. "Well, Odo said I wasn't half good enough for you, hero of the Shire or not, but if you liked me he wouldn't mind on the whole. He also said he'd toss me in the pigpen if I stepped out of line or turned out to prefer adventures to good honest work."

She laughed heartily, twisting away from him to toss a handful of straw at him. That started a brief but fierce hay fight which only ended because the cows bellowed louder than ever. As they swept up the remains of their ammunition and threw it down to the impatient cattle, Estella asked curiously, "What about mum?"

"She said you liked me but you'd take a lot of convincing before you'd admit it," he teased, sticking out his tongue at her.

"Cheeky," she scolded without an ounce of seriousness.

"So," he finished, laying the rake aside and reclaiming her hand with alacrity, "will you come to sup at the Hall and shock all my innumerable relations with your frightfully bad aim and general inability to win a hay fight?"

"You're just sore that I got straw down your collar," she shot back, grinning. "And yes, I'll come. Just let me dash inside and change. I don't want to shock them too badly, turning up ugly as one of Sharkey's Big Men."

She had meant it for a joke - what did clothes matter when Merry Brandybuck liked her? - but he appeared to think she was serious. Gently, he tucked a stray curl behind her ear again. "You'd look lovely in Orc-rags, Stella."

She flushed, pleased, and rewarded him with a bold peck on his cheek. Then she scrambled for the ladder and thence out the barn door, heedless of the chill wind. The glow in her heart painted even the wet and mud in rosy hues. Behind her, she heard Merry whistling cheerfully.


	13. A Brother's Two Cents

**A Brother's Two Cents**

(corresponds to Chapter 9 of Book 6)

* * *

She had hardly ever rushed through changing and cleaning up so quickly before. It was, quite frankly, rather a miracle that the daughter of Odovacar Bolger did not go to meet the Master of Buckland and his wife with her dress on backwards and mittens over her toes.

She grabbed the first clean kirtle she found in the chest at the foot of her bed. Fortunately, it was one of two winter frocks she still owned since the deprivations of Lotho: a pine green lawn that suited her pale skin and made her hair, which she had hastily freed from the strands of straw that tangled it, look redder than ever.

As she clasped her usual blue cloak over all - inside out, as she later discovered - and ran for the entry hall of her home where Merry waited, she heard a heavy step behind her.

"Essie?" Fredegar called from the kitchen doorway. "Running over to Waterford?" That was the name of Aunt Tulip and Uncle Timkin's farmhouse on the other end of Budgeford. It would serve as a plausible excuse.

But Estella was no coward, not even when it came to facing Fatty's well-meaning blustering, which was sometimes rather worse than being plain scolded. She spun in the hallway and said with only a little bit of sauciness, "I'm going to Brandy Hall for supper; would you tell da when he comes back from the coops?"

Fatty, who had clearly been rolling dough for bread judging by all the traces of flour on his face and hands and weskit, snorted. "You'd better try harder if you want me to believe your fibbing. If you were invited to Brandy Hall, I'd be invited too, and we'd all go together. Where are you really off to?"

She bit her cheeks to hide the sly grin that wanted to break out. "I'm walking out with Merry Brandybuck and he's invited me over for supper. So I'm going. I'll be back before midnight, if da wants to wait up."

Her brother stared at her, utterly flabbergasted and mouth flapping uselessly. Estella kept her mouth firmly shut, but her eyes laughed silently as she stared him down.

"Come on, Stella." Merry came down the hall a few paces after a few seconds of astounded silence. "Before you send Fatty into delirium."

" _Estella Bolger!_ " the elder brother found his voice at last. "You can't walk out with _Merry_!"

"Why not?" she asked, and quite a bit more sauciness than before was evident in the tilt of her nose.

"Because the two of you together would be the worst mischief the Shire's seen since Isengar Took went to sea!" He crossed his arms, but his face did not wear the expression of stubborn scorn she had expected. In fact, he looked rather as if he were trying to accustom himself to the idea.

"Oh, come on, Fred," Merry protested, grinning as he slipped Estella's arm through the circle of his own. "I'm hardly about to carry her off to the wars in the South."

"Maybe not, but you'll certainly do something to get you both labeled disturbers of the peace," the Bolger-lad complained. A small smile was beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. "Has my da tanned your hide yet, Brandybuck?"

"Gave me his full blessing, actually," Merry replied lightly. "One of the perks of saving the Shire is you can win over the prettiest girl."

Estella squeezed his arm to silently thank him for that remark. "You're taking this calmer than I thought you would, Fatty."

Her brother shrugged, sending a light dusting of flour drifting down to the floor. "I admit, I don't really like it. Somehow, it's odd to see you with Merry and not me and Frodo and the old gang. But, well, times have to change, I s'pose, and you look happy, Essie."

She blinked in surprise and stared at him. Estella had somehow got to thinking of her brother as stuck in his young peevishness, unable to grow past what would eventually become an insistence on propriety akin to the most interfering Shire-matron. Even after the Lockholes, he had seemed to simply sink back into his old ways and go on living as if nothing had happened. But the sight of him half-smiling at her and grudgingly giving his consent meant that he had changed, he had grown. She felt as if she had tried a familiar recipe for treacle tarts and it had come out as strawberry pie. It wasn't a bad taste, but an unexpected one.

"Thanks, old fellow," Merry said after a beat of silence, and gently tugged Estella toward the door.

"Though I will do something drastic, no matter what your size in hats is, if you don't have her back before midnight," Fatty added sententiously.

His sister laughed and freed herself briefly from Merry to dash forward and hug her brother. Fredegar crushed her briefly with the force of his embrace before clearing his throat as he let go. "Now look what you've done; you got flour all over your dress!"

"I don't care a jot," she replied, grinning, as she traipsed back to Merry and they passed out into the frosty night. The young Brandybuck didn't appear to care much either, from the way he grinned as he helped her up on his white pony and swung into the saddle behind her.


	14. Name Calling

**Name Calling**

(Corresponds to Book 6, chapter 9)

* * *

"I said," Merry's laughing voice came close to her ear, "who are you looking out for?"

Estella jumped a little, but she smiled when he slipped his hand into hers and gave a little squeeze. "No one. I was wishing for a little snow, that's all. It's been such a perfect year, I think it deserves to be topped off with snow at Yule-tide." She smiled as she stared out the round window in front of them.

They stood in one of two small libraries at Brandy Hall, a cheerful dusty comfortable room painted in reds and pale browns and crammed with full bookshelves and plush chairs and little tables cluttered with mathoms. A single round window looked out toward the rolling fields of Buckland below a gray winter morning sky and beyond that the brown line of the Brandywine, edged with ice but not frozen.

Estella and Fatty and Rosamunda and Odovacar were staying in the Hall for the winter festivities, along with several hundred Brandybucks and Brandybuck relations. Really, the sheer size of the place was dizzying; it was more like a small town than a single hobbit-hole. She had begun to understand Merry's childhood desire to escape, but all the same, it was lively and wonderfully decorated with holly and candles and red bows and filled with laughter and old songs. She loved it, every nook and cranny and mathom in the place. She tried hard not to think of what it might be like to live here all the time. It was hardly a month since she had really started going with Merry; it would be some time more before any new step was thought of.

The heir of the Hall hummed agreement and let his eyes follow her gaze out the window to the slate grey winter sky. "You know, I had a deal of a time finding you. You might leave me a map next time."

"And supposing someone else found the map first?" she answered airily. "Then all my effort in finding a quiet hiding spot would be wasted." With her free hand, she idly adjusted the sleeve of her dress - a dark gold cotton affair trimmed with white rabbit fur at the cuffs and a pale green sash at her slim little waist. It had been a present from her father last week and though it was fussier than her wont, she liked it for his sake.

" _Are_ you hiding, Stella?" he inquired half-seriously, turning from the window to face her. She was pleased and flustered by the fact that he had not yet let go of her hand.

"I suppose so, a little," she admitted. "There's just such a lot of them all at once. And, well, I may possibly have been exiled from the kitchens after Augustina said I burned the fish stew."

"Ah, a kitchen offense," he teased, shaking his head solemnly. "One of the worst kind. It's a wonder old cousin Auggie didn't have you exiled to the Shire."

Estella stuck her tongue out at him. "I didn't really burn it, or at least I don't think I did. I was just… distracted. And I let it sit a minute or two longer on the fire, but it wasn't irretrievable. I am a decent cook."

"Well, come sit by the fire and tell me what distracted you, then, oh decent cook of the Bolger clan." His tone was solemn, but he couldn't manage a straight face as he gently tugged her toward the low sofa positioned in front of a stone hearth which sheltered a cheerful little blaze.

She smiled a bit and shook her head, even as she took a seat next to him and let him tuck her hand between both of his. "Old wives gossiping, that's what. Nothing important, darling."

" _Darling_?" Merry sat up straighter, making his sapphire velvet jerkin rustle against the couch cushions.

Estella half-wilted and stammered, "It just… slipped out. I won't… I don't have to-"

"I like it," he interrupted, grinning. "Only now I'll have to think up one for you."

She stared at him a moment, her cheeks glowing pink as summer roses, before she hid her head on his shoulder, much to his satisfaction. "Anything but 'honey bun'. My Aunt Tulip calls her girls that," she muttered.

He snickered and lightly kissed the top of her head. "No, you're no kind of pastry at all."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the fire and listening to the distant whirl of activity and voices and just enjoying the warmth of the other's hand. At last, he broke the quiet with:

"What was the gossip that made you nearly scorch the fish, sweetheart?"

She sat up and beamed at him. "Is that my new name?"

Merry arched one eyebrow. "It is if you like it."

"Nearly better than 'Stella'," she proclaimed, resuming her position with her head on his shoulder. The soft foreign fabric was comfortable but the firm muscle underneath it was very unlike the usual hobbit plumpness. She didn't mind a bit.

"So what was it? The gossip," he repeated, shifting to let her snuggle in closer.

"Merry Brandybuck, you're as curious as an old maid."

"I know and it's brought me a lot of grief, but it's so much more interesting than minding my own business," he responded, letting go of her hand to tap the tip of her nose. "So?"

She sighed and wrinkled her nose. "It… wasn't very nice. Just Shire-talk; you know how old cats can be."

He pulled away a bit so that he could meet her eyes. "Stella, did it bother you?" The teasing had gone out of his voice and the little furrow between his brows showed genuine concern.

"A… a little bit," Estella admitted, shrugging. "They didn't know I was there, I think. Three or four old Buckland matrons wondering what you were doing with… with a 'snooty, queer Shire-lass' when there were so many 'decent pretty girls' here."

He frowned sharply and reclaimed her hand. "Does it bother you what people think?"

"A little," she answered honestly, "but not really, deep down, if… if I was sure your da and mum didn't see it that way."

His frowned reversed into an affectionate smile and he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Well, you can stop worrying, then. My old man loves you. He thinks because you're a sensible Bolger you'll steady me and make me stop haring off on adventures with Pippin."

Estella couldn't help it; she snorted. "I'll only insist on following you two and bringing my bow."

"I know," he grinned, letting go of her and standing to mend the fire, which was starting to pop incessantly. "Just don't tell him. And as for my mother, she likes you for being a merry lass," he grinned at the play on his own name, "who isn't afraid to fire a bread roll at me when I kick you under the table. She was worried I'd pick someone like Clover Banks or Nevina Shrub-Brandybuck." Seeing that she did not recognize the names, Merry explained, "Silly girls who wouldn't ever do anything unexpected or improper. Rather stiff and dull."

She tucked her legs beneath her and settled one of the cushions in her lap, hugging it comfortably. "I can't picture you with a dull lass. Even before your adventures. Tell me again about the Lady Éowyn and the Battle of Pelennor?"

He grinned and laid aside the fire iron before sticking his hands in his pockets. "Don't you want to hear about the Old Forest instead? Aren't you curious about the headless white wolves and ghouls and all that?"

She snorted in derision. "As if you wouldn't have told Fatty all of that long before now if that were true. Pippin, at least, would never be able to resist frightening him out of his wits."

The young lad chuckled. "True. Do you want to know what we really found in there?"

Estella nodded, smiling eagerly and hugging the pillow tighter.

He lowered his voice until it was appropriately mysterious. "Well, we found the way to the Bonfire Glade, but the path to it had moved away altogether. The trees move, you know, and talk to each other in voices just under what we can catch. So all you hear is a sort of whispering and a sense, maybe, of what the words are. And the trees didn't fancy being disturbed by a group of Shire-folk, particularly not when Frodo started singing about the end of all woods. The trees were herding us, really, since we couldn't even walk the ponies anywhere but down to the Withywindle, the heart of the power of the place. And the further we went, the more awake and angry the trees were."

She leaned forward to ask a question and jumped when the door of the library was flung open.

"There you are!" Pippin exclaimed, bustling in and shutting the door behind him with his elbow, as his hands were engaged in carrying two platters of pasties. "I've run into just about every relation in the place but you two. Charmed old Auggie into giving up these for a mid-morning snack, and I thought I'd share. Though you two ought to have told me you'd found a neat little hiding spot."

Merry grinned, snatched two of the handpies off one of the plates, and threw himself onto the couch at Estella's side. He offered her one of the treats before biting a rather large piece off the other. "Good thinking, Pip," he said through his mouthful.

"I know," the heir of the Thain replied with self-satisfaction as he selected one for himself. With the pastie held in his mouth, he set the two plates on the floor between the couch and a low unoccupied armchair, the end table being completely occupied by trinkets and knick knacks. He promptly made himself comfortable on the armchair and swallowed enough to speak. "Was he boring you, Essie?"

"Not much," she teased back, elbowing Merry in the arm as she took the pastie and bit through the flaky crust. She swallowed and added, "He was telling me about the terrors of the Old Forest."

"Did he get to Old Man Willow yet?"

"Pippin, you'll spoil the whole thing!" the narrator complained, still smiling through his mouthful.

Pippin leaned forward conspiratorially. "Did he tell you about how a tree nearly ate him because he wanted a nap?"

"It got you too!" Merry protested. "And you were asleep more than me! I at least woke up halfway in!"

Estella giggled and settled in to hear the two playfully argue about how the rest of the story went.


End file.
